Aesthetics
by fingers-falling-upwards
Summary: Paying for his mother turned out to be more than he had thought. Lucky for him, he was always a resourceful one. In fact he finds another job that he can do without anyone at work finding out. Who would suspect clumsy Spencer Reid as a part-time model?


Welcome to my first "Criminal Minds" fic. Here's to Spencer Reid for being awesome.

Lots of love to the amazing htewing for Beta-ing for me.

Depending on the reception of this, I may or may not be continuing this.

I do not own Criminal Minds nor any Characters affiliated with it.

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><p>Carefully controlled light poured from the fixtures. A bright flash of it would dance through the air accompanied by a sharp sound. Angles. He was all angles. An elbow, an arm, a leg; he was moving artwork. Sharp, but arched. It was impossibly achieved. Fluid was the only word for it.<p>

Clear as water and just a pure.

Eyes flickered between a range of emotion, belaying a lifetime of feelings during one session. Now, it was cold, frigid as the ice-caps and blue glass. Next it would be hot, like the sun, and just as unquenchable. Warmth was the reprieve; soft, comfortable, effortless; entirely approachable. It was the laughing emotion; the one with smiles. Following that, would be smoky. Heavy, sultry the gaze weighed so much. Those who were captured by its attentions felt the walls close in and the air begin to fog up. Yet it was undeniably pleasant. Every particle of oxygen was relished as the intemperate gaze would flash around the enclosed space.

Fabric moved, like spider webs in the wind. It was floating in the air-space with each movement, never having enough time to settle before it was stirred once more. The much stiffer material near the cobbled ground was like invisible tethers. Cut straight black, they attached the breezy, illusory top part to the cold, patterned ground. Surely without them, the figure would aloft into the atmosphere.

Amidst the soundless art was echoing calls that bounced harshly off the stone. The contrast was so sharp and stinging that it was like shattering glass with each shout.

The subject was a silent beauty. The exclamations pierced the veil of the surreal art form. Onlookers subconsciously seethed at the interruption, but were outwardly more relaxed. Were it not for the shouts they would likely be swallowed by the phantasm before them. It reminded them that they were still on earth; that they were still human; and that somehow, so was he.

It was unlikely that they recognized the experience even as it happened, as basic and instinctual as it was.

With the finality of a few more soft clicks the instant ended. The moment was held, by invisible, slowly unwinding twine.

The magic spell was broken and the humanity rushing back. It was a short man with bold-black glasses that first approached him

"Ah! _Mousier Mathieu _fantastic job, as always!" He proclaimed, earning him a soft smile from the other man.

"Thank you Mr. Moreau. But, I should be thanking you. I don't know if I've ever been done this early. You're always so efficient." He replied happily.

"Not at all _mon petit chou, _when working with someone like you, it only makes sense that we could get what we needed quickly."

He received a slightly bashful smile as they each grabbed a water bottle as it was presented by one of the assistants. Behind them there were twin chairs set up and the younger sank into his gratefully. Despite this being one of his shorter photo-shoots, standing on his feet for three hours was always taxing.

"I don't even think we needed that second roll of film. I think we got this in the first few frames."

The younger man gave a more sincere, yet tired smile.

"I'm just glad we don't have to drag this out into another day." After the words had vacated his mouth he realized they could be taken badly.

"Oh! It's not that I don't enjoy working with you or anything! I mean I love working with you! It's just- I-"

The older man was laughing now. The other was pouting slightly. He was just trying to be polite!

"It's fine _mon ami._ I get what you mean."

He finally moved to address the crew, who were chatting and more or less loitering about.

"Alright everyone! Good work today! Jeanette, get the wardrobe and make-up sorted! Paul, get the cords all wrapped up, _properly_ this time, if you don't mind." The man ducked his head sheepishly.

"The rest of you are on clean-up duty. Let's go people! There's going to be a service here in an hour and I don't want to be arguing with the nuns again when I have to explain why there is glitter and spotlights everywhere!"

"But sir! We didn't use glitter this time!" Henri, who known for his snark replied and one of his superiors smacked him on the back of his head warningly.

"You know, these books don't just look heavy." The woman, Maelys commented.

"Sir, blood would be awfully terrible on the tile."

"All the more reason to clean fast before there's another mess; and call me ma'am!"

"Sir! Think of the nuns!" He said looking reproachful.

"Call me ma'am dammnit!"

"Uh-uh, sir, the title in English is 'sir!'"

"No it isn't!"

"Just get to work!" Jacque Moreau snapped and was secret pleased when they all flinched and tried to look busy. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his companion shift uncomfortably.

"Perhaps I should help th-"

"Don't even think about it." He deadpanned.

"But I mean-"

"No."

"If you just let me-"

"No. Look you've been on your feet all day. Just kick back and let them do their jobs! Make them earn _leur argent__." _

Henri snorted audibly.

"Working here is more of a charity at the wages we get."

"I hear there's an opening for sitting on the street if you wanted to go apply." Maelys threatened once more.

"No sir!"

"Call me ma'am!"

Matthew laughed at their antics and they turned on him. The petulance and stance reminded him so much of siblings that he had to bite back another laugh.

"Mathieu! Tell her! The title to be used is 'sir' not _ma'am."_ As he spoke the latter, it was heavily coated in the familiar French accent.

"Non! No, it is ma'am for woman and sir for men." She said nodding her head eagerly.

Matthew quelled under their intense stares and leaned back in the seat as they inched closer to him.

"Leave Monsieur Mathieu alone! Sir is for men and ma'am is for the woman in this country!" Moreau snapped and they scrambled away.

"I'm sorry they were harassing you like that."

"Its fine, I'm sure they were just curious." He smoothed out the jacket he was wearing and tried not to look so ruffled.

It never ceased to amaze Jacque Moreau how such cool and serious model was so bashful and shy once the lens was capped. In a way it was endlessly frustrating; the way he couldn't take praise without trying to redistribute it, or how he never seemed to understand when a female, - whether it was another model, or a behind the scenes worker, or hell, even random women on the street—would make passes at him. (Or even, sometimes, realize that they were making passes at him at all.)

Yet, in another was it was so welcome and refreshing. Model's lived with their heads in the clouds and their eyes on a mirror ninety-five percent of their lives. Trying to pursue a deeper conversation, (not having anything to do with hair or themselves) was like drawing water from stone; impossible and frustrating.

There was intelligence behind those doleful sepia eyes. Any attempt at drawing it out was quickly diverted, much to Jacques irritation. It was unavoidable that little glimmers of it popped up over the years. He was often blindsided by the model when a random fact or statistic would tumble from his mouth that had no relevance at all. (Like exactly how many whales were killed every year for make-up, or how many tourists on average visited Paris every year.)

Monsieur Mathieu was a very private man who rarely talked about himself. He came to work, modeled, conversed some, and then took a _bus_ home. (That in itself was suspiciously garish.) Because he only did modeling part-time, on and off, Jacque took it that he had another job and would entertain himself by trying to picture what the man did.

The fact that Mathieu was relatively well known in the fashion world, despite the fact he only pursued it in his free-time was remarkable in its own way. Though, he was much better known overseas than in his home country of America, Jacque supposed. He didn't know why, but it was that way. Mathieu worked almost exclusively for magazines and fashion lines in Europe. Even though he did his work for the other continent, he rarely ever left America, with the exceptions of some very choice fashion shows on occasion.

Thus, to create the style of Mediterranean Europe, they were in an old cobbled church. Glancing through a digitized copy of some of the photographs, Jacque was reminded how very worth the trip to America was when he got results like these.

"Honestly, I don't know _why_ everyone else I work with can't be as good and easy to work with as you are!" The short man sighed dramatically as his companion just looked on with humor. "Even my assistants." He said mutedly, but not mutedly enough for a pouting 'hey' reached his ears. More good natured laughter followed.

"Especially my assistants! Also the younger group I've had to canvas recently. _Mon Dieu. _It's so terrible! Talentless, shallow, empty-headed, moronic little _cretins!_"

"Mr. Moreau! Surely they aren't that bad." He offered half-heartedly.

"You obviously haven't met them! They have no appreciation for the art! It's all the money and getting famous." He mourned.

"I'm sure they'll learn to appreciate it when they get a little older." It was unlikely as studies showed a slight tapering interest in most art areas, but he kept that little fact to himself.

"Perhaps you are right. I can only hope." They sat in a brief, relative silence before the older man stood up; patting his hands on his designer pants to remove the dust that was omnipresent in old churches like the one they were in.

"I had better make sure Paul puts the cords away right this time." He said wearily.

"The check will be sent to the same address as usual. My editors will be _joyeux _when they see the pictures. I will be in contact in a few weeks for a follow up, non? Au revoir Monsieur Mathieu."

"It's not that I mind, but sometimes I don't know if you actually know my last name."

"Bah! What kind of family name is Gubler? So tasteless! With such a wonderful name as _Mathieu_ lying around, how can you expect me not to use it?" He quirked a brow before walking off to find the unsuspecting assistant.

Matthew Gray Gubler looked at the retreating figure of the eccentric man and smiled before shaking his head. Jacques was always very entertaining to work with at the least.

"Ah! Mathieu! Did you want me to un-gorgify you before I put away all my stuff?" Jeanette offered as she strode past him.

"Yes, thank you." He stood and went over to her little table as she dug in the bags for the make-up remover. Inwardly she didn't understand why he was always so determined to get it off before he left, but she was happy to help him so he wouldn't have to go to the sink and smear her beautiful job. (That really wasn't very good for his skin pores.)

He automatically shut his eyes as he sat down and she went to work with her little pad.

There never was all that much to remove; with such dark circles already accenting his eyes, there wasn't much use for eye-shadow. His skin was naturally clear and they found that just a base coat was usually enough. Of course they did draw lines to give his face more depth and outline his already strong jaw.

Jeanette and he were previously acquainted and got on pretty well. (It was hard not to when you spent so much time together putting on and off make-up for his various shoots.) She was usually sent over with Jacque, who was the photographer for a fashion magazine in Europe called Regard, which, as he had learned, meant 'look' in French.

They made small talk before Matthew thanked her and they crew and gathered his stuff to leave. He quickly changed out of the clothes and snuck out before anyone saw him.

He hadn't really been looking when he grabbed his clothes that morning and got one or two odd looks at his sweats and Santa-sweater as he boarded the bus, but ignored them. He closed his eyes, and by the time he opened them, he was at his stop.

The remainder of the evening he spent reading and he wrote a letter to his mother. All in all it was a fairly relaxed day. He turned in early after a short dinner of macaroni and cheese, knowing that if he didn't, he would be a certifiable zombie through work tomorrow.

At eight thirty-five pm Matthew Gray Gubler went to sleep, and at seven fifteen am, Spencer Reid woke up.

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><p>Yep, this little idea was given life a while ago and I finally decided to put it out there.<p>

Once again, love to Htewing.

**REview? **I'd desperately love to know what you think.


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